What Kind of Hero
by Shenaniganary
Summary: Norsekink meme fill. Our darling captain can't help thinking of a certain dark-haired, pale-skinned god when he takes care of himself on his painstakingly pressed, pristine bed. Lime. Explicit.


**This is a cross-posted fill of a prompt located on _norsekink_, the Thor kink meme on LJ. This is EXTREMELY EXPLICIT, so please don't read if you're not prepared for that. Thank you for reading and enjoy!**

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><p>Steve has a thing for dark-haired people; and whether or not they're dames hasn't ever seemed matter. That knowledge used to scare him, hell it <em>still<em>does; but no one ever wanted him before the serum and he never wanted anyone else after Peggy. He never really had a reason to worry about someone finding out.

At least not until now.

It's dark hair against pale, pale skin that gets him every time.

He wants to regret it, he _does_to an extent, but guilt only stops him so far, and lying on his bed (made-up in the same way as always; crisp, pressed lines and straight-cut finish just like he was taught and still remembers even now seventy years later) the only ones who have voices here have been dead for many, many years.

And he's gotten a little too good at blocking them here.

Steve bites his lip and twists his wrist, smoothing his thumb roughly over the head of his cock. He wonders, perversely, what Dr. Erskine would say if he saw his greatest achievement now; jerking off in his room and pretending it was being done by a whippet-thin, poison-eyed god with a twisted smile and too-pale skin.

Steve's exhale seems obscenely loud in the air, but he cranes his head back against his pillow, arching for the feel of long fingers trailing up his belly, smoothing over the thick muscle before scratching back down in short, teasing jolts of sensation. Those fingers then curl against the base of his cock; thumb rubbing up the thick, engorged vein that draws up it; the coolness of his fingers (and they are always cool, Steve can't imagine them otherwise, has stopped trying) startling against his overheated skin.

"Look at you," The god whispers, a smirk in his voice, smooth as silk against his ear, "Such a big boy. So large and commanding," Fingers tighten against his cock and Steve lets out a choked groan rocking into it, "But not here, hmm? Not here in this bed. Not with me."

The quality of the air shifts as Loki looms above him, his free hand coming up to smooth his thumb against Steve's lower lip, "You're still that scrawny kid from Brooklyn, boy. This new shape of yours can't hide _that_."

The fingers find his throat, and begin to squeeze, "A little kid from Brooklyn just trying to prove his worth. You'd do anything for that, wouldn't you, Rogers?" Breath ghosts against his cheek and teeth nip sharply at his chin, "You'd do anything for me."

Steve gasps as the hand at his throat lifts off without warning, but cannot do more than grunt as Loki's other hand tightens, pumping his cock with tight, brutal strokes, "You've gotten everything you could have wanted; fame, respect, work you cherish, people who _love you_," The hand twists , punishing and brutal, forcing a harsh grunt from Steve, who tosses his head to the side and pants as the pleasure bleeds into pain and rushes back twofold, "You command a team once more, you're _alive_ once more, and yet all you truly want to be is ordered around. All you want is to be told what to _do_; to have _purpose_ in your stupid, minuscule, mortal _life_."

Steve groans aloud and bites his lip viciously to stifle the sound of it. Loki sneers at that, his tone savage, "And look at that! Such a kind boy! So considerate of others that he would quiet himself and deny them his voice! Truly, what an honorable man!"

Loki presses forward once more, jerking Steve's chin to force him to meet his eyes, "Do you know what I do with honorable men, Steven Rogers from Brooklyn?" His head darts forward, quick as a snake, to bite and suck at his throat, "Do you?"

Steve stares, wide-eyed, muscles trembling, and shakes his head. Loki's sneer deepens, then morphs into something too feral to be a smile; wide and large and _dark_. "I fuck it out of them," He breathes, poison eyes glittering like the shine of a blade, "I fuck them deep and I fuck them hard. Until they can't even remember their _name_."

Loki shoves his fingers into Steve's mouth, rough and deep enough that Steve fights not to gag. Loki watches him with avid eyes, pressing deeper, eyes narrowing as Steve's cheeks hollow, his tongue licking them with timid, questioning licks. Green eyes narrow in appreciation and he spreads them inside his mouth so Steve can lick the webbing between.

"You have a beautiful mouth, my Captain," He croons, "I would have you take me in it," Loki hisses, sliding the thumb of his free hand against the head of Steve's cock, smearing the precum dribbling out in a steady stream, sliding thick and wet down to his balls, and then shoving his thumbnail into the slit just to watch Steve jerk and writhe, "And after I came down your throat you would lick me clean."

Steve shudders at the thought, eyes going wide, his head jerking forward to take those fingers deeper, to encourage the thought and perhaps further, to do it now-but they pull out of his mouth instead with a slick, obscene _pop_.

"But," Loki growls, lips curling in a half-sneer, half-smile, "This time you'll take me here." Steve feels fingers, slick from his own spit, slide over his balls and bucks upward without thought; his feet hitching up against the bedspread, spreading his legs wide for it.

Loki could do anything to him, anything at all, and Steve would gladly take it.

Loki is a god. He has lived for centuries; through countless wars, waged battle and _won_. He is an immortal, as everlasting and eternal as the stars. Loki will never leave him through old age or sickness. He will never abandon Steve in times unknown, never say goodbye.

Steve will never stand before his grave and wonder what could have been.

Long fingers find his anus and press inside without hesitation. Steve shudders for it, groaning and shoving his face into his pillow, but arches forward all the same. He takes them as deep as he can, grunting for each inch and keens into the hot air as Loki's fingers twist.

Steve is close now, so very, very close. If Loki were to press against that spot inside him, secret and shameful and so, so good, he would come within moments.

But Loki is too clever by half.

He spreads his fingers wide, only two of them, and Steve thinks he should be startled it is only that, but his back is arching, and he can only grunt and buck, trembling for more.

Loki sighs; a soft, mournful sound, "So impatient," His fingers twist, spread inside him wide, avoiding the spot inside him with practiced, agonizing ease, "Look at you, spread out beneath me; wanting, _needing_, and I can't have you yet."

His fingers curl inside him, brushing tantalizingly close to his spot and Steve cannot help the keen the builds in his throat nor the way his hips buck forward for that one final _inch_.

"Ah, _ah_," Croons the god, his fingers retreating until they're almost outside of him as Steve whimpers for the loss, "Not yet, my darling Captain. I haven't even made you _beg._"

"Please," Steve whispers, teeth gritted against the need to shout his surrender. He must be quiet, he _must_ and Loki has to understand, "Please, I'll do anything. _Anything_. I want you inside me I want you so much, I—"

Loki does nothing for a moment, watching him through half-lidded, pupil-blown eyes as Steve works his hips in helpless jerks, trying to take his fingers deep once more.

"_Please_."

And suddenly his fingers are there, long and rough and _deep_, rubbing hard against that spot deep inside , making him cry out; loud and wanton in the air as his cock, come arching high toward his chest in four great bursts.

It's only after the starbursts have faded from his eyes and his body lies slumped on the bed still trembling with the fading aftershocks that he realizes there is a hand against his mouth, muffling his voice. He shudders for a moment; eyes squeezed shut before he pries it from his mouth.

Spit shines wetly against his palm, and he wonders, dazed and blinking slowly, his muscles blissfully exhausted for a few quiet moments, just how long it has been there, keeping him silent.

His body tightens reflexively as dread whips through him, and the muscles of his lower body burn in warning, a testament to their recent treatment and the rush of endorphins quickly fading. He removes his fingers with a grunt, wincing at the flaring burn, and tries not to think of what it means to come with only fingers inside his ass.

"Shit," He mutters, voice rough and grating in his ears. The cuss is foreign and odd to his tongue, but in this moment it feels more right than anything else he's done. He rolls over, muscles still gummy, but the strain in them quickly fading, (it never stays long, not after the serum) and snatches up the box of tissues on his nightstand. He wipes himself clean with quick, easy strokes; the actions familiar and oddly comforting in defiance to the creeping guilt that coils in his gut.

He tries to lay his head in his hands, to let the guilty creep up on him in the quiet of his room, but all he can do is smell the scent of himself on his fingers, and wonder, perversely, viscerally, if they would smell different on another's fingers. What he would taste like on his tongue, the sounds he would make as he sunk deep, breathed filth in his ear and made him forget about commanding others, about saving lives and being _good_, a model citizen and a model hero, always the good man. How he would feel once the only thing left was the slide of skin and the feel of someone deep inside where no one else could go-

With an anguished groan, he stands and stalks over to his pile of neatly folded clothing, pulling it on him with vicious care. He's not petty enough to take this out on his clothing of all things, or people for that matter, but he needs to get these thoughts out and there's only one place here that's remotely safe.

He heads off to the gym with determined strides, and prays that he won't see anyone on the way. Steve is no liar and there's no way he would ever be able to explain.

He rubs his face with one hand, feeling stubble, and the lingering scent and shudders again, guilt spiking deep.

What kind of hero masturbates to his enemy?


End file.
